


Ten Thousand Talkers Whose Tongues Were All Broken

by tameimpala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Creepy Alastair, Dean in Hell, Gen, Hell Trauma, Pre-Season/Series 04, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-01-29 15:02:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12633519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tameimpala/pseuds/tameimpala
Summary: It was beyond unfair. And Dean wanted revenge more than anything. He wanted to turn the blade onto them, carve their stinking souls up into pieces to make them pay. Every damn day he had to listen to their whining screams knowing he’d never hear Sam’s voice ever again. It was a joke, their voices all merged into one broken lifeless squeal in the end.Just white-noise.There are thousands of voices in hell. And Alastair makes them talk to Dean.





	Ten Thousand Talkers Whose Tongues Were All Broken

* * * *

#  ________________

  


  


Today there was a businessman to the left of him. 

  


Souls had the unfortunate fate of forever wearing the visage of the clothes they died in, much to Dean’s amusement or sometimes horror. Often it gave a little insight on who they were above ground. Although it didn’t matter if what they were wearing was nondescript, Alastair was usually more than happy to fill him in on their many sins. 

The man shackled to the rack adjacent to Dean was dressed up in a pinstriped tailored monstrosity of a suit. Dean had seen it torn to slick ribbons and drenched in so much blood that the navy had turned black and the white stripes maroon the day before. But right now, it was the beginning of a new day. 

They had all been returned to their factory settings, all spic and span, shiny and new. Ready for the torture to start again. The same thing, day in day out, for thirty years straight.

“No no not the pliers.” Whimpered the business man, his jowls shaking in fear as Alastair surveyed his tools and caressed the rusty instrument, “No you used that yesterday, please!”

 _You idiot,_ thought Dean, _if he knows you’re scared of them then that’s all he’ll use._

“Please please I’m begging you.” The man whispered, a thin sheet of sweat now covered his red face. He’d obviously lived a charmed life before his death and Dean had to bite back the urge to tell him to shut the fuck up and have some pride. The guy’s incessant babbling and screaming had set his teeth on edge yesterday, that is until Alastair himself had wrenched each and every one of them from his mouth with the very same pliers.

“Begging? That’s never gotten anyone anywhere has it now?” Came the slow nasal growl of Alastair’s voice as he stared down at the terrified man. He picked up the pliers and gestured them towards Dean with a cruel smile, “You see Dean here, he doesn’t beg.”

He moved with lightning speed and whispered into the man’s ear, poison dripping from every word, “Wouldn’t you like to be the one to get him to beg?”

“No please god no not the pliers again.” He pleaded, his eyes focused madly on the tool the demon held instead of listening to the bile he spoke, “Listen man anything, anything but the pliers.”

“I don’t think he’s quite ready for the major leagues yet ay Dean-o?” Alastair called to him, smiling that reptilian smile, “Maybe tomorrow I can get him to carve into _you_ , that is, if you don’t take up my offer first…Time you know, she is a-ticking”

Dean lowered his eyes and caught a glimpse of the amulet that still lay around his neck. He knew it was a projection, an imprint of his soul, but it still provided him with enough strength to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t know how long he could keep tapping that supply until the well ran dry. It certainly wasn't a matter of months, but days. 

Dean had been in the midst of a draught for _years._

“Pity.” Sighed the demon and started to trail the pliers down the man’s arm, who in turn began to whimper and cry in anticipation of the horrors he was about to endure. “We’ll have to move old Charles here down the rack. But there is always tomorrow isn’t there?”

  


_**Tomorrow tomorrow,**_ sang the part of Dean’s brain that was becoming more and more unhinged by the day. No wait, _by the years_

  


“Please I swear I’ve done nothing wrong!” Cried the business man named Charles who had payed a hitman to murder his wife in order trade in for a younger model and embezzled his company out of 3 million dollars.

  


_**I love ya, tomorrow...** _

  


“NO STOP I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING I SHOULDN’T BE HERE-”

  


_**You're only…** _

  


“God no stop- AGHH PLEASE!”

  


“This is a mistake, please don’t, no more, I can’t take it!”

  


“LET ME OUT- PLEASE SOMEONE SAVE ME!”

  


  


_**A day away…** _

  


* * * *

  


The next day Charles’ rack was empty. Instead there lay a middle-aged woman to the right of him who had been crying non-stop since she’d arrived.

  


“Tsk tsk Gillian you are just the worst aren’t you?” Mocked Alastair, a small curved blade danced in his hand as he surveyed her.

“No no no I shouldn’t be here I really shouldn’t-” The woman shook her head and murmured to herself incoherently. Another one who wouldn’t last two days.

“You won’t believe what she did Dean.” Alastair hissed at him, “Oh it would make you want to tear out her lungs...”

The woman let out a gurgling scream as the knife dove straight into her chest.

“Gillian here killed 7 poor innocent babies.” Said the demon lazily, dragging the knife slowly to the side as the woman yelped in pain.

“I-I WAS H-HELPING THEM I SWEAR.” She pleaded, as if Alastair would actually believe her and say _oh my mistake ma’am, I’m sorry for any trouble_ and send her on her way.

Of course nothing of the sort happened. This was hell. This is where your debts came due.

“Oh how their parents wept _Dean,_ ” Alastair carried on addressing him as always, he dove his hand deeply into the hole he’d cut in the woman’s chest to punctuate his name, “Wept for their children- taken away from them too soon, before their lives even began.”

“N-no.” The woman gurgled weakly, blood running down her chin. She turned her wild bloodshot eyes upon Dean and he recoiled, hating the intensity, hating being used as a pawn in her torture and her a pawn in his, “THEY DIDN’T UNDERSTAND! I WAS HELPING-“

“We have a baby killer here Dean and you’re telling me you don’t want to carve her a new one?” Interrupted the demon, now elbow deep in the woman’s chest. “What are you in here for again huh?”

Dean turned away and glared at the empty blood-stained slab next to him where Charles had screamed himself hoarse just yesterday. He wondered where the fat man and his pinstriped suit were right now. Was he being torn into by some lowly demon in a different corner of hell? Or was he the one inflicting the pain, twisting the knife, dealing out the same agonies he’d been subjected to…

Alastair’s blood drenched hand clasped around his chin and forced Dean to look up into his white milky eyes. Even in their blankness he could sense that internally they were dancing with delight.

“Isn’t it so _unfair_ Dean? Doesn’t it make you _angry_?”

It did, anger like he’d never known was pulsating through his veins. He was here, in Hell, neck deep in vermin. This place was even too good for some of the people he’d had the pleasure of sharing the rack with. And yet he had to endure the same kind of agony as them? Watch on as his own insides were torn and mangled beyond recognition right before his very eyes? Dean had traded his brother’s life for his own soul and yet he was enduring the same torture as the lowest of the low, murderers, thieves, and other monsters?

It was beyond unfair. And Dean wanted revenge more than anything. He wanted to turn the blade onto them, carve their stinking souls up into pieces to make them pay. Every damn day he had to listen to their whining screams knowing he’d never hear Sam’s voice ever again. It was a joke, their voices all merged into one broken lifeless squeal in the end. 

  


Just white-noise.

  


“What’ll it be son?” Leered Alastair, his breath heavy in Dean’s ear.

  


  


  


  


The next day a woman who’d murdered her own parents for the insurance pay-out arrived on the rack.

  


And Dean stood over her tear-streaked face, blade in hand, ready to carve.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I guess this was kinda like a short character study, I hope you liked it :)
> 
> The title comes from _It's a hard rain gonna fall_ by Bob Dylan


End file.
